This was it. We had finally touched down in Argentina, our first introduction to South America. I was thirteen, traveling with my parents and my two little brothers for a three-year term of missionary service. According to our tickets, we were to spend the night in Buenos Aires in a hotel (included in the ticket price) before catching our connecting flight to Bolivia. Jetlagged after a twelve-hour flight from Auckland, New Zealand, to Buenos Aires, we staggered onto the airport bus along with all the other people catching connecting flights. It had grown dark, as the flight had been delayed, and the lights of Buenos Aires revealed buildings, boulevards and sidewalk hoardings.
The bus pulled up outside the hotel and we all started looking around for our cabin baggage. The bus driver got out and spoke to the person at the door of the hotel. Unfortunately, there seemed to be a problem. A helpful Uruguayan businessman in the bus explained to those of us with only elementary Spanish what was going on: thanks to that delayed flight, the hotel didn’t have enough rooms free for all of us, but the hotel receptionist had... read more >>